


Toxin

by Capucine



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Animated)
Genre: Brothers, Canon-Typical Violence, Chases, Even evil has standards, Gen, Pain, Poisoning, Slightly unreliable narrator, Sort Of Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-30 01:12:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5144855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Capucine/pseuds/Capucine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Damian is being chased by plant monsters, already under the effects of a toxin. However, what will Poison Ivy's reaction be to catching him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Toxin

**Author's Note:**

> Got this from a prompt generator thing. Kinda a drabble.

Damian darted through the hedge maze, a burning sensation under his skin. It was like tiny barbed _things_ were on the inside trying to get out, on every square inch of his skin.

But he ignored it, as he ignored the sweat dripping down his back and the way the hedges kept seeming to leap out at him.

He ignored the way his lungs burned and the way his legs threatened to give out.

He still had those monsters chasing after him, after all.

The things, the monsters, were leafy, rotten green, with long, thorny arms and fast, whip-like legs. They would appear any moment now, sweeping around the corner like some sort of bizarre alien, lurching strangely in their running but undeniably fast—gaping, bark-lined mouths able to open wide enough to swallow him, he was sure.

Or at least take off his head.

Damian swiped at his brow as the sweat seemed to pool in his mask, and he thought rather pragmatically that he was going to be dehydrated soon. Whatever the toxin was, it was strong stuff, and it was going to make him pass out soon enough. 

He only had to reach Drake.

Drake always had the anti-toxin, the anti-venom, the fix-it. He spent a lot of time working on such things, and since not everyone could carry it, he was the trusted carrier on group missions. _Especially_ against the likes of Poison Ivy.

Who, of course, was the creator of the moaning, howling creatures that came lurching around the corner just then.

Damian's military-grade boots clacked loudly against the stone pathway. Normally, he would be more quiet, but this was a life or death situation that did not rely on quiet, and he threw such things to the wind as he nearly careened into a hedge.

A viny arm shot out—they were fast, faster than they had a right to be—or Damian had slowed down. The long thorns slashed his arm, but he staggered forward.

Just had to get to Drake, and then--

How did he not see the vine reach out, latch around his ankle and drive those two inch thorns in? He let out a pained grunt, the thorns seeming to be more than mere thorns as the stabbing sensation was accompanied by burning.

He was without his belt, without his sword or other comparable weapons, and he was being dragged, jerked, towards the gaping mouth of the plant-thing. 

Damian growled, doing his best to first get a grip on the ground to slow his being dragged, and then freeing a shuriken from his arm brace—one never knew when one would need a weapon, so it was best to keep them wherever possible. A shuriken was definitely not ideal for the situation, but it would do—he slashed at the vine, knowing he was cutting up his hand in the process.

It tore apart, getting sticky plant juice on him—but that was a mild concern, as his whole head did an agonizing throb and he stumbled in his haste to get up. Pain, he could take. He was an al Ghul. But the dizzying sensation was harder to fight, and his ankle wasn't responding as well as it should.

He wasn't afraid, of course, as he lurched towards the exit of the botanical garden—and Drake and a cure. Most importantly the cure. If prickles seemed to crawl up his skin, if his breath was coming faster, it was clearly because of the toxin.

A twisted howl escaped from the creatures still behind him, and he cursed, willing his body to go faster—he had literally climbed mountains with broken bones, he could do this, should be able to do this easily.

When he staggered, nearly falling on his face as his foot went numb, he had a strange flash of wanting Grayson—but that was immaterial. It didn't matter, he was all right and he would make it. With his foot losing feeling, of course, it was more of a concern that he would be less speedy in general.

He could practically feel the things' breath on him—and so tensed instantly when he heard another vine whip out, turning with his shuriken to attack it. Instead, it latched around his middle, the thorns agonizing in his abdomen. 

Maybe he screamed. He wasn't sure. All he knew was white hot pain, a different sort than breaking a bone or a good hit to an unprotected part. He came back to himself in a second or so, panting heavily and feeling the burning spreading throughout his abdomen and lower back.

He had clenched the shuriken in his hand; he was dripping blood. He snarled, viciously slashing at the vine with the shuriken—but this one was thicker, tougher, and it wasn't coming apart as fast as the other one.

Another one suddenly latched around his arm, thorns digging in and making him cry out. It was a special hurt, a different hurt—it was like when someone used to Mexican sort of spicy food tried Thai spicy food.

That, and the toxin, and that was why his face was wet and stinging, because Damian _did not cry_ , thank you very much.

It burned, under his skin like bubbling acid—it felt like his skin would split from the pressure, like he hoped it would so that it would just _stop_ \--

And that was when he heard the voice.

“Batman's seedlings just keep getting younger...” Poison Ivy, Pamela Isley, stood over him, green eyes looking him up and down—but in a sort of bored way. Not in a way like a criminal mastermind intending to torture him would.

He knew what that looked like.

Still, he was already being tortured—in agony as he tried to growl out a response to her and instead a _whimper_ \--a humiliating little sound of pain—escaped from him.

His whole abdomen and lower back were going numb, but it wasn't a comfortable numb—it was cold, it was stomach-upsetting. He thought he might vomit.

Poison Ivy watched him for a moment, almost as if she was remembering that humans felt pain. She was out of range even if he could force his limbs to attack. She pursed her green lips a moment, and then, with that cool detached look reserved for most humans, she nodded to her monsters.

They walked, moving Damian with jolting, prickling steadiness. He did lose his last meal then, thankfully the monsters flipping him over with a skin-tearing motion so he didn't choke to death.

He couldn't feel his legs anymore, he realized, and he managed to croak out, “What are you doing with me?”

It was supposed to be an intimidating tone, one that would make the green woman stop and give him a serious answer, like Batman. But she turned her head slightly, a slightly raised eyebrow, and then kept walking.

Then, he heard a voice. “Hold it right there, Ivy.”

Drake.

“Red Robin,” Poison Ivy greeted. She gestured to the monsters, and they lurched forward, making Damian feel like his innards were being shredded and trying to force their way out his mouth.

“Robin,” Drake said, and there was—concern? Maybe concern in his voice.

“He is a child,” Poison Ivy said flatly, as if this was a clear explanation. And abruptly, Damian was dropped in front of Drake, who was looking down at him in apparent worry.

Drake just nodded, and Poison Ivy added, “You are practically a child as well.”

Her tone sounded disapproving, though it was unclear to Damian who it was disapproving _at_.

Drake nodded again, saying, “Uh, thanks, Ivy.”

She turned and left abruptly, sure to do more battle with Batman and Nightwing.

Damian intended to snap at Drake as he leaned over him, examining the damage—but instead a pained groan came out, his throat feeling like baked bread or something.

“I got it, Robin,” Drake said, infuriatingly calm. He pulled an antitoxin, apparently sure on what the issue was, and administered it.

Then, before it could kick in, he scooped up Damian. A low growl was all that Damian could manage, but Drake just gave a motion like he was rolling his eyes behind his mask.

“You need treatment, Robin. You're out of the fight—at least for now.”

Damian made grumbling noises, but in his now shaking and cold and raw state, he stood no chance of getting away.

Of course, Drake's warm body, or his firm hold, were not comforting at all.

Damian only let his head rest against Drake's chest because that was the most convenient and practical thing to do.

Obviously.

**Author's Note:**

> Poison Ivy might be slightly off, but just consider her to have had a recent experience involving a kid or something. :)
> 
> Hope you enjoyed my silly little work!


End file.
